


The Other Side Of The Wall

by sansainthenorth



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Mention of dark!dany, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Queen in the North, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, selfblaming!jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansainthenorth/pseuds/sansainthenorth
Summary: “Throw me out. Send me away. Sentence me to the Wall once again.” His voice was hoarse, full of spite and regret. “You’re my queen. Command me to do as you please.”He took one step closer to her, their warm breaths tickling each other’s lips.Her heart fluttered inside her chest. “I command you to kiss me.”***Once the dust settles on Westeros, the Starks must face a new challenge after Arya disappears in mysterious circumstances.In order to rescue her sister, Sansa has no choice but to form an alliance that might cost her true happiness and the life she had always dreamed of.*Post s8 fic in which Jon and Sansa find each other while looking for their missing sister.





	1. Ever Since Winter Had Ended

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fix-it post season 8 fic because the open ending immediately inspired me. It's hard to work with what s8 gave us but this girl loves a challenge. Also, I intend to fix all the things that were left out in s8, like Jon’s feelings about his parentage, Sansa’s reaction to it, the Starks working together etc.  
> PS: sorry if some words may seem out of place, English is not my first language.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Winterfell, Sansa receives a raven from Bran about Arya's disappearance.

**Sansa**  

 

Sansa looked out of the window. The snow on the Winterfell ground was melting day after day, creating many little puddles here and there. Winter had been over for almost a year, but the ground had yet to regain its earthy colours. She recalled those days when her siblings used to play outdoors, jumping into the puddles and splashing each other. She recalled Robb, the eldest, who would always chase Bran and Rickon. She recalled Arya, more similar to them than to her who, in spite of Septa Mordane’s numerous reproaches, could not help but dirty her clothes. Sansa did not love playing in the mud, so she preferred watching them from afar, as their laughters filled her ears along with the chirping of birds.

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce woke her from her memories. “Soon you will have to make a decision.” 

Sansa sighed and turned around to face the old man who was standing near the door.

“I know, Lord Royce.” Sansa lowered her gaze and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I will make my decision when I’m ready.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“What do you know about him, Lord Royce?” Sansa asked.

“From what I’ve heard, he seems like a good man,” Lord Royce replied, nodding as he spoke.

Sansa had first seen Nymor Martell in King’s Landing almost a year before, in the Dragonpit. She had taken a glance of him and as far as she could remember he glanced at her, with the corner of his eye, too. Months after the trial, she received a scroll from Dorne. The Prince had invited her to Sunspear but she had yet to accept his invitation. The war had just ended and she needed some time to rest in Winterfell. After Bran’s coronation and Arya’s departure, Sansa had to rebuild her family’s castle stone after stone. Even though her siblings had not been there to help her, she could count on Lord Royce, who did not mean to go back to the Eyrie any time soon, and on Brienne of Tarth, who had come back from King’s Landing and was now serving as commander of the Queensguard. In the first months after her coronation as Queen in the North, Sansa’s days had been filled with paperwork and subjects to listen to. As the days went by, however, Sansa could feel her muscles loosen and her heart relieved. With no threats from outside, now she could find peace, the one she had lost many years before, when she had first left her home to go south. However, Prince Nymor was waiting for an answer, and she knew what it could have meant for her and for her kingdom if she had gone to Sunspear.

“He might ask for your hand in marriage,” Lord Royce said.

“I know”, Sansa replied. She had always known that a marriage would be in the cards but she still remembered when she had sworn to herself that she would have never married without love. She was ready to die alone rather than fall into a loveless marriage again. She had not had the chance to meet Prince Nymor yet so she considered the possibility that he might really be a good man, like he was said to be. _Maybe we’ll grow into love like mother and father_ , she thought. Or maybe they would not marry. What hid behind those dark curls and brown eyes Sansa could not know yet, but all that she was sure about was that she would have never allowed her heart to suffer again.

“Have you recently heard from your sister, Your Grace?”

“No. I received her last scroll weeks ago.”

Since she had left Winterfell, Arya would send a scroll every week, updating her sister on every new marvelous place she visited. She told her about gigantic plants that could swallow a full-grown horse, beaches of diamonds that would never end and many other things that were somehow unimaginable to someone who had never seen them. Even though Sansa missed her little sister dearly, she knew that she had to follow her own path. It was odd, however, how she had stopped sending scrolls. Sansa was beginning to worry, but she figured that maybe Arya was just busy, traveling from one place to another. In the end, all Sansa could do was wait patiently for her sister’s words to fly to Winterfell again.

“Your Grace!” The closed door behind Lord Royce burst open and Ser Brienne’s tall figure appeared. “A raven came from the capital.” Brienne gave the scroll to Sansa, who quickly broke the dark grey Stark seal with her long fingers and opened it.

_Sansa,_

_I cannot see Arya anymore. I believe she might be in danger. I will shortly travel to Winterfell so that we can discuss._

_Brandon Stark, King of the Six Kingdoms_

Sansa gasped in shock. _My fears came true_ , she thought.

“My sister is in danger,” Sansa said loudly, in a monotone voice. Lord Royce and Brienne were now both silent and looking at her. “Bran is coming. We need to prepare to receive him.”

“I will have a room prepared for the king, Your Grace,” Lord Royce said.

“Lord Royce, send ravens to Storm’s End and to the Vale. We’ll take all the help we can get,” Sansa commanded him.

Lord Royce nodded and quickly walked out of the room.

“What do you think happened to her?” Ser Brienne asked, her dark grey armour shining under the sunset lights that illuminated the room through the window.

“I don’t know. I just hope she isn’t hurt.”

Sansa let the scroll down on the table and started walking around the room. Arya was a skilled fighter and knew how to defend herself, however she was alone out there in the world and everyone is vulnerable when there is no one protecting them. What could Sansa do, now? The northern soldiers were still recovering from the Great War and so were Bran’s troops. Was she supposed to go to war? If so, against whom? Was Arya taken from someone? Was she even alive? A million other questions started tormenting Sansa’s mind, but no matter how hard she thought about it, she could not seem to find a solution. Her kingdom was still on its knees and now she had to find her sister who was apparently lost who knows where.

“Your Grace, maybe you should send a raven to Castle Black as well,” Brienne spoke and Sansa frowned, thinking.

“Maybe I should. But Jon still can’t leave Castle Black. This is what was agreed upon when he was sentenced to the Wall.”

“So? Will you not inform him?” Brienne asked, looking worried.

“Of course I will. Jon needs to know, but there is nothing he can do.”

“I see, your Grace.” Brienne bowed lightly and left the room.

Sansa perfectly knew what Jon’s reaction would be, but there was nothing she, as Queen in the North, could do to allow him to come back to Winterfell. Those were the rules and Sansa knew the consequences if she had broken them.

After a long silence, Sansa straightened her back, inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly, and then spoke, no one else to hear: “I will do whatever it takes to rescue my sister.” Then, she walked towards the window and stood where she was standing before she had heard about her sister’s disappearance. As the sky turned from light blue to lilac, she knew that other wars would come, and even though she was not made for war, she would be ready to fight for her family and for her kingdom. Arya was her blood, and she swore to herself that she would never lose her again. I am the daughter of Winterfell. Snowflakes run through my veins and nothing can scare me, she thought to herself.

It was at times like this that Sansa needed her family the most, and ever since winter had ended, she had been missing Winterfell’s snow.


	2. I'll Go Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Castle Black, Jon finds out Arya is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to who is reading. Bear with me alright?

**Jon**

 

“Jon! Jon!”. Tormund Giantsbane’s raspy voice filled the quiet room and Jon woke up from his state of trance. The sun had just settled and the dark velvet of the night was starting to embrace Castle Black and its icy surroundings. Jon’s brown eyes were darker than ever and for a moment the red-headed wildling feared that he would turn into a dreadful monster. Jon stood up from his wooden chair, all covered in black furs, and rushed through the door. Ghost quickly got on all fours and followed his master, whose stride was rapid and decisive. He quickly descended Castle Black’s staircase, and step after step thought about her sister and wondered where she could be. His breath was sharp and uneven, and his muscles were tense and hardened like Valyrian steel. With his gloved fists clenched, he crossed Castle Black’s empty courtyard, which was immersed in silence. He was heading for the stables with only one thing on his mind.

Jon was saddling a horse when Tormund grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around. His jaw was clenched and he was breathing even faster than before.

“You can’t do this”, Tormund said firmly, his fire beard all covered in little snowflakes that shone like stars. 

“You can’t stop me”, Jon replied, escaping from his grip and resuming what he was doing. The horse neighed and Jon adjusted the pommel of the saddle.

“I know, but they can. They’ll kill you this time”, Tormund insisted.

“As if it hadn’t already happened”. Jon’s voice was hoarse, and even though he tried, he could not hide his inner turmoil. He had known for years what the Night’s Watch did to dissenters but he was not scared of it, not after being stabbed in the heart by his own brothers. This time there was no Red Woman who would bring him back to life, but after hearing that Bran was heading north because he suspected that something had happened to Arya, he was willing to take that risk. He had already tried to leave Castle Black many years before, when he had heard that Robb was marching south. This time, he was determined not to let them to stop him. After committing queenslaying, he believed, nothing could be worse than that.

“Listen to me, please” Tormund said, grabbing Jon’s arm. His pleading caught Jon by surprise, but he did not flinch. “They wanted you executed. You made it and you’re still here. We’re at peace now. The Freefolk and the Night’s Watch finally at peace like it had never been. Can’t we try to keep it?”

“I will never be at peace as long as my sister is lost the gods knows where”. Jon cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m not asking anyone to come with me, I’ll go alone”. Jon’s eyes were now burning like a thousand fires. His heart-shaped lips were pressed together and his forehead was crossed by wrinkles.

Tormund sighed and reluctantly let Jon’s arm go. He took a step back but kept his blue eyes on him. He lowered his gaze and then spoke again.

“Go fast. Don’t let those bastards get you”. Tormund smirked, his beard framing the corners of his thin lips.

Jon chuckled and they exchanged a fraternal hug. He gave Tormund one last look before mounting on his horse whose mane sparkled like molten silver under the moonlight.

Jon left Castle Black when the sky was already pitch dark and the moon was high, yet small and timid. The cold winds cut his skin like a thousand sharp knives, but Jon knew he had to go. He looked back once, watching the torches that illuminated the castle become smaller and smaller as his horse rode into the gelid night. Winter had been over for almost a year, but sometimes Jon swore he could still feel that deadly cold he had come to know in the past years as if the monsters that brought it were still out there.

Jon rode for a long time, until he stopped to light a fire. As the moon shed a snow-white ray of light on him, he looked around to find some branches to cut. He felt the cold in his bones and envied Ghost, who seemed not at all bothered by the stinging freezing air. He was in the middle of nowhere, far from the King’s road, surrounded by tall trees which seemed to whisper incomprehensible words in the winds of the night. Little snowflakes fell on his face and melted when they touched his skin, yet he was so cold that he could no more feel his fingers. He started thinking of Winterfell and its grey yet cosy chambers, with their ever-burning hearths who never failed to keep him warm. He thought of Bran, who was now King, and wondered how he was. He even thought of Sansa, with her hair scarlet like pomegranates and her impeccable ladylike composure. If he had listened to her, he thought, now he would not be lost in a desert of snow and stones. He thought of all the things that had happened in the past years and he wished he were at home, safe, with no more need to swing Longclaw at least for a while. 

When the fire started warming up, Ghost lay down near it to catch some warmth. His crimson red eyes were even more fiery, lit up by the scorching flames. Jon sat near his direwolf and petted his soft and immaculate head. He brushed with one finger what was left of its right ear, and sighed at the thought of what the poor direwolf had to go through. Ghost let out a soft moan and adjusted his huge head under Jon’s hand, which made him smile.

He continued petting it, but stopped when he suddenly heard some noises. He stood up and scanned the area around them, and even though he saw nothing he was sure he could hear some voices, mixed with the drumming of hooves, softened by the snowy ground. As soon as he realized what it meant, in the blink of an eye Jon hopped on his horse. He kicked it forward, and started riding into the night again, with Ghost alongside him. Jon heard his brothers’ yelling and saw arrows fly on his sides. His horse was riding as fast as the wind, and even though he tried to dodge them by lowering his body, one arrow hit his right thigh, piercing his flesh from side to side. He could feel his warm blood flow out of his body through his lacerated flesh, but he tried to resist the stinging pain that was staring to blur his senses. If he had stopped, they would have taken him, and everything would have been over. If he had stopped, he would have died. And he was not ready to go again.

Jon felt his blood pumping in his ears, and started counting his heartbeats. One, two, three, his heart was beating like a thousand drums and he felt as if his chest was about to explode. His wound stung and his grip on the reins loosened but he tried not to let go as long as he could, until the voices behind him faded out and his eyes saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow [my Tumblr](https://sansa-in-the-north.tumblr.com) to stay tuned!


	3. Who Sails Past the Sunset Sea Can Never Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran arrives in Winterfell, and Tyrion meets someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite chapter so far, for all the braime fans x

**Tyrion**

 

The ride from King’s Landing to Winterfell had been long and exhausting, but Tyrion Lannister had had the chance to admire the calming green northern lands now that the snow on the Kingsroad had melted entirely. The last time they had ridden to Winterfell, it had been when he was Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand of the Queen, and half the continent was covered in snow. Now the Mother of Dragons was gone and so was the ice, yet Tyrion was still the crown’s most trusted advisor. He had been reluctant at first, but he had started to believe that there actually might be a reason why Bran had seen something in him. 

From the small window of the wheelhouse that was carrying him, Tyrion recognised Winterfell’s castle, with its grey stone towers and the Stark banners swaying proudly in the air as the fresh winds of the North pushed and pulled them in a thousand different directions.

After King Bran’s court had entered the gates of Winterfell, all the knights and bannermen started dismounting and Bran was helped out of the wheelhouse he had been travelling in with Ser Podrick Payne, the young commander of his Kingsguard. Bran’s brown hair was swept aside by the wind, revealing his icy gaze. Together with the members of the Kingsguard, Ser Davos and Grand Maester Samwell Tarly gathered next to the King, and Tyrion, after watching from afar for a short while, rushed on his small legs to join them and waited for the Queen in the North, followed by Lord Royce and Ser Brienne, to welcome them. Regardless of what the royal etiquette required, Sansa hugged Bran tightly and kissed him on the cheek. They had not seen each other since Bran’s departure for the capital and Tyrion could really sense that the affection in Sansa’s heart had not faded despite the distance. After greeting her younger brother, Sansa adjusted her pearl grey gown and greeted the other members of the court, Tyrion last.

“Your Grace”, Tyrion bowed his golden head before Sansa’s tall figure. “I have never seen a queen wear a crown with such elegance”.

“Lord Tyrion, I am very flattered”, Sansa replied ironically and Tyrion smirked at her quick remark.

“Are you insinuating that I’m _flattering_ you?”, Tyrion asked, chuckling.

“Perhaps”.

“It's not flattery if it’s the truth”, Tyrion concluded, and Sansa gave him a warm smile. Her crown was made of shining silver and little glistening stones and represented two direwolves, symbols of house Stark. It made her auburn hair shine even more, and Tyrion truly believed that she wore it as if she were born for it. He had no doubt that if her mother had been alive, she would have been proud of her daughter.

Behind Sansa, Tyrion noticed Ser Brienne’s gigantic figure, who looked even taller than he remembered. If he had not known her, he would have been wary of her, as the dark grey armour with the Stark sigil she was wearing made her look even more frightening. Slowly, he walked over to her and greeted her.

“Ser Brienne”.

“Lord Tyrion”, Brienne greeted him as well. Her sapphire eyes looked slightly sad, yet proud. Her pale face was impossible to read, but Tyrion knew very well what had been haunting the woman’s heart in the past year. His brother’s death still hurt like a fresh wound for him as well, and Tyrion knew that some wounds never truly heal, no matter how much time goes by. There was also something else he wanted to ask her, but he had to wait. His king and the Queen in the North had to hold council first.

Winterfell’s great hall was colder than he had expected, but Tyrion figured that it must not be as such for the Queen and all the northmen, whose clothes were not covered in dark furs like the last time he had seen them. He walked past their stern faces and sat at the great table next to Bran. Sansa was sitting in the middle, and Lord Royce was by her side, on her left. Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, was sitting at the table, too. Tyrion thought that his face looked dull, as if he had not slept well the night before. After everyone was inside the room, the council began. 

Sansa stood up and everyone went quiet, candlelight illuminating her high cheekbones.

“My lords, I want to personally thank all of you for responding so quickly to the call and for joining us here, today”, she started. “We have fought many battles together and the North is finally recovering from the Great War. However, I fear that our swords won’t be able to rest yet”. Sansa paused and looked over her left, at Bran, who nodded slightly at her sister, before speaking.

“My lords, I am here today because I can’t see my sister Arya Stark anymore”. Bran paused and a murmur of voices filled the great hall.

“What does it mean?”, a confused northern lord Tyrion did not recognise stood up and asked.

“My ravens can’t reach her anymore”, Bran answered, and the old grey-haired man looked even more bewildered than before. “And I don’t know why”, Bran concluded, resigned.

The murmur of voices resumed and became even louder. “What my brother means”, Sansa spoke again, “is that our sister might be in danger”. She paused for a few seconds, and Tyrion had the chance to observe the northmen’s faces. They all looked focused and were beginning to understand their Queen’s words. “We have summoned you here today because we need your help in rescuing our sister”. Tyrion could sense Sansa’s voice trembling, but she did not allow herself to appear vulnerable. She took a deep breath, then resumed. “House Stark will never forget your support”.

A long pause followed. Tyrion observed all the northmen as they consulted one another and was relieved to see that, after a while, they all nodded together as one man.

“We pledge ourselves to House Stark’s cause, your Grace”, Lord Umber stood up and proudly announced the northern lords’ intentions. “Arya Stark is the blood of the North as much as our Queen and we’ll do whatever we can to save her”, he concluded. 

Tyrion looked over at Sansa, who smiled proudly. She looked visibly relieved and her blue Tully eyes glistened like two stars reflecting the scorching fire of the torches that illuminated the hall.

“Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End has already pledged his forces to our cause as well, and we have sent a raven to the Iron Islands. If we want to find my sister, we’ll need as many ships as possible”, Sansa explained.

“But”, Lord Umber spoke again, with a confused look on his wrinkled face. “Where will we set sail for?”, he asked.

“What’s west of Westeros?”. Bran echoed the words her sister Arya had spoken on the King’s Landing pier many moons before. Tyrion knew those words, as he had heard them from the king himself.

“We don’t know what’s west of Westeros, your Grace”, another lord rose from his seat and spoke, addressing Sansa.

“No one knows”, Sansa replied. “That’s where all the maps stop and that’s where my sister wanted to go”. Sansa licked her lips and spoke again. “I don’t want to oblige you, my lords, but your support is crucial”. 

The Queen’s words bewildered the northern lords, and this time King Bran’s Hand stood up to speak.

“I know what it might mean for you, my lords”. All the northmen’s voices stopped as they turned to Tyrion to look at him. He remained seated but spoke loudly and clearly so that his voice could reach even those who were sitting on the opposite side of the hall, far from him. “But House Stark rebuilt the North after the Boltons had taken it and after the Great War as well. Arya Stark killed the Night King and if we’re all still standing here today it is also thanks to her courage”.

After speaking, Tyrion held his breath and waited for the northmen’s response, which unequivocally came when they all lifted their swords, swearing again to fight alongside House Stark. 

Tyrion let out a sigh and looked over his right at Sansa, who mouthed a _thank you_ and smiled. He nodded and sat down again, receiving Bran’s approval, too.

“It is set, then”, Sansa spoke and then dismissed the council. 

All the northern lords stood up and started leaving the hall, and Ser Podrick walked over to Bran, in order to guide his wheelchair. Tyrion hopped off his wooden chair and was reached by Ser Davos.

“Do you think they’ll be true to their word?”, the grey-haired man asked him, with his hands behind his back as they both walked towards the exit door.

“They must”, Tyrion looked up at him and sighed. “Or their queen will be forced to convince them”.

“Queen Sansa is fair and just”, Ser Davos said, nodding slightly as he spoke, to reinforce what he was saying. “She would rather avoid do this the hard way”.

“Her father didn’t like chopping heads off either, but he knew it was his duty”, Tyrion concluded. 

Before Ser Davos could speak again, Tyrion swiftly excused himself and hurried on his small legs to reach Ser Brienne, who was escorting the queen out of the great hall.

“Ser Brienne”, Tyrion caught her attention and she turned to look at Sansa.

“It’s all right, Brienne, you may go”, Sansa said and left the room alone, her long grey gown flipping graciously as she moved.

“I don’t mean to bother you, but… may I see her?”, Tyrion asked in a soft voice, looking even littler than usual.

“Yes, my lord. Follow me”, Brienne replied, walking out of the room and leading the way to the main staircase of Winterfell’s castle. Tyrion held his breath the whole time, and finally exhaled when the tall wooden door to Brienne’s chamber opened in front of him, revealing what he had been waiting to see for countless moons.

Tyrion proceeded with caution, as if he were scared of what he was about to see. His small steps were so slow that the wooden floor did not creak under his weight. Brienne remained near the door, leaning on the doorframe, watching him as he approached the small pine cradle near the burning hearth. The flames that illuminated it made it look golden, just as the tiny head that rested inside it. Tyrion’s little hands rested on the edge of the pale wooden cradle as he, on tiptoe, looked inside. What he saw took his breath away. A babe, a girl, with eyes blue like the crisp sky he had seen that morning when they had arrived in Winterfell. Her face was round, with cheeks puffy and soft like peaches, and lips so pink they seemed painted by hand. Her lashes were blond, golden like the short hair that sprouted from her little head like daffodils from the spring ground. Tyrion reached out with one trembling finger, watching in awe with his blue eyes as the little one wrapped her minuscule fingers firmly around it. When the little creature started babbling and laughing, warm tears formed at the corners of Tyrion’s eyes, and a smile bloomed on his mouth. Countless laughters followed as well, and for a moment Tyrion swore he had seen his late brother’s smile on the babe’s face. 

Tyrion furtively wiped off his tears when Brienne walked over to him. There were countless things he had thought of saying before this moment, countless thoughts that had formed in his mind, yet now he had forgotten them all.

“She’s… beautiful”. It was the only thing he had managed to say, his voice still shaking in his throat.

“I know”, Brienne replied simply, standing tall next to him and looking down at her daughter. Tyrion could hear her uneven breathing due to the many emotions that filled her heart, and wondered if she could hear his as well.

“My brother would have adored her”. The words flowed out of Tyrion’s mouth like a wild river from a spring before he could stop them, but after all, why should he? It was one of the truest things ever spoken. If Jaime had been alive, he would have loved her daughter. That baby would have meant a new beginning for him and for Brienne, too, but sometimes life is not like in the songs. Sometimes, there is no happy ending.

“I know”, the woman uttered again, as if she did not know any other word. This time, though, Tyrion perceived a hint of sadness in her voice.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry for everything”. Tyrion slowly walked away from the cradle and stopped in front of the table next to what he figured was Brienne’s bed. He poured himself a cup of fresh water but wished it was his favorite red fruity wine instead. That would have certainly helped him tone down his emotions, which were resurfacing from the depths of his soul like a fire impossible to extinguish. “I’m sorry he left, I’m sorry he… died”.

“It wasn’t your fault”.

“It was”, Tyrion almost cried, quickly turning and looking Brienne straight in the eye, guilt and regret painted on his face amidst his many scars and wrinkles. His small hands were shaking, and his short fingers curled around the cup until they became white in rage. “If I hadn’t brought the Dragon Queen to Westeros, she wouldn’t-”

“It wasn’t your fault”. Brienne repeated. Her voice was resolute, firm, impossible to shake. She walked towards Tyrion and looked at him straight in the eye, towering over him. “I have never blamed you, and I never will. Your brother made his choice, he knew what would have happened”.

“Maybe it’s true… maybe it’s…”. Tyrion was about to speak again, then he realised that nothing would have changed. He could have gone on talking about his late brother while blaming himself or his former queen, but nothing would have changed. All would have remained the same. His brother would have still been dead, and the sight of him covered in bricks, dust and ash, alongside his dead sister, would have never left his mind.

“I know it’s hard to carry on”, Brienne started speaking again, with a softer tone. She was now looking at her baby, who had fallen asleep despite Tyrion’s yelling. “But sometimes we have to find a way to do so. We have to find other things worth fighting for”, the blonde woman said as she caressed her baby’s head with a finger, gently brushing her fuzzy scalp in order not to wake her.

“What’s her name? I didn’t even ask…”

“Joanna”, Brienne said proudly. “It couldn’t have been otherwise”.

Of course, Tyrion thought to himself. Now, he was even more sure than before: his brother would have been proud.

“If you need anything, Ser Brienne, I would be very happy to help”.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion. But we already have everything we need, at least for now”. Brienne was now smiling timidly at him. “When I left King’s Landing, and didn’t know where to go, I came here. I didn’t even have to ask. Queen Sansa took me in and treated me like a sister. I will never forget what she did for me… for us”.

“I am glad to hear this. But, her name…”.

“Queen Sansa legitimised her. She’s never been a Snow”.

Good, Tyrion thought to himself. “I believe it was for the best”.

Joanna Lannister, then, she was. His little niece, a few months old, born from the love between his irredeemable brother and the first woman to have ever been a knight. At the thought of this, Tyrion suppressed a chuckle that rose from his lips.

“Why are you laughing?”, Brienne asked him, frowning in confusion.

“It’s nothing”. Any trace of sadness had now left Tyrion’s face. “It’s just… life can be really surprising at times”. He then recomposed himself, and spoke again. “I’m sure she’ll grow to be a lucky girl”. He reached for the carafe filled with water to pour a cup for Brienne as well. “I am also sure”, he continued, handing Brienne the cold cup, “that she’ll be fierce like her mother”.

Brienne blushed lightly and chuckled, incapable of holding a smile back.

“Shouldn’t we toast with wine?”, she asked, skeptically observing her cup with her blue gaze.

“No wine in front of babes”, Tyrion joked, dragging a wooden chair in front of another. “I should actually ask Queen Sansa where she keeps all the wine. I’m sure she doesn’t want her former husband to wander around the castle completely sober”.

They sat in front of each other for a while, the two of them, like two old friends catching up on lost time. Their hearts were not as heavy as they had been before, and their eyes were not as sad. Tyrion had never had the chance to have a proper conversation with Brienne, but now that his niece had been brought into the world, now more than ever she had become his family, too.  
****

Tyrion was resting his cup on his thigh, looking down at the many golden rings with lion heads that embellished his short fingers, when he spoke again.

“What do you think will happen, now?”, he asked breaking the silence that had been hovering over their blonde heads.  
****

Brienne gazed at him with a confused look, trying to comprehend the meaning of what he had just said. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean”.

“Do you think they’ll find her? Arya?”.

Brienne swallowed down her last sip of water.

“I’m not sure. You know what they say”. A sigh escaped from her lips. “Who sails past the Sunset Sea can never be found”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow [my Tumblr](https://sansa-in-the-north.tumblr.com) to stay tuned!


	4. Not Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a shipwreck, Arya wakes up on a beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an Arya POV (a bit short but it had to be). Let's see what's up with her. We're getting closer to the first Jonsa chapter ;)

**Arya**

 

When Arya opened her eyes, coming back to her senses from a long and dark oblivion, she could not manage to see anything around her. Her gaze was out of focus, and a river of light flooded her eyes, so bright that she squinted. She coughed, salt water released from her throat, and started breathing again. She took deep breaths, her brown eyes wide open, glad that she was alive. She needed a handful of seconds to properly comprehend where she was. Her body was lying on a beach, soft waves coming in and out, tickling her bare feet. Her face was covered in sand, and countless red wounds snaked her bare forearms. The grey shirt she was wearing was battered and full of bloodstains and her leather jerkin was gone. Her feet were bare, dirty and sore. The air was humid and sticky against her skin, and her hair was tangled in a mess of sticky emerald seaweed and empty pink shells.

Arya’s first instinct was to look at her hip, looking for Needle, and when she saw the thin blade lying next to her, she felt less naked. She moved slowly, resting on her forearms, sweeping a thousand hot grains of sand away from her lashes. She tried to remember what had happened before she found herself on a sandy shore, white as snow, surrounded by huge black crabs that would move around on their short legs, coming out of the water and retreating back amidst the crystal waves. She tried to remember, but every trace of her memories had disappeared like dust in the wind. How did she end up there? The only thing she recalled was her ship docking in a city whose name she could not remember, full of fish merchants and palm-trees, and then nothing else. What had happened later? What had happened to her? Where were her ship and her crew? A thousand questions started spinning inside Arya’s mind, yet no answer could be found.

As a white seagull landed near her and pecked a small crab with its bright yellow beak, Arya stood up, her knees trembling like leaves. She stretched her muscles and looked around her. The still sea surrounded her, its light blue water glistening under the warm sunset lights. In front of her, she saw nothing but a wall of tall palm trees, too dense for her to see through from such a distance, and some rocks scattered here and there. She picked Needle up and slid it into its sheath, securing it at her hip. She slowly untangled her hair and took a deep breath. Her lashes felt heavy on her eyelids, still covered in salt, yet not from her tears. There’s no time to weep, she thought. She had to find shelter, now that the sun was setting and the night would soon engulf the world in its dark embrace.

Arya walked away from the shore, her footprints on the white sand erased instantly by the fresh waves, like the memories of her recent past. She still struggled to remember what had happened, but no matter how hard she tried, her mind was a blank slate, the ink disappeared. As she walked towards the palm trees, so tall they could touch the sky, the sunset exploded behind some cotton clouds, burning red like Dornish oranges, and illuminated the island in a coat of gold and crimson. Arya’s lips were dry from the saltwater, and a trickle of blood flowed down her lower lip, like a warm ruby tear. She wiped it with her thumb, and tasted it on her tongue. She kept walking, making her way through the tropical forest by pushing aside the huge leaves with her hands, and stopped when she reached a bush whose branches were heavy with fruits she had never seen. They were round and big as peaches, with smooth skin and purple in colour. She used her sharp blade to harvest a handful of them and to slice them open. With their liquid pulp running down her fingers, she sat on a flat rock near the bushes and ate them, sweet and creamy against her ravenous tongue like sugar and honey. 

After finishing, Arya licked her fingers and hopped off the large rock. She was still close to the beach, as she could still hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The warm evening winds danced among the trees, and countless wild plants surrounded her, shining like emeralds under the moonlight.

It was too dark for her to wander around, so Arya cut some tender leaves and weaved them together like a pillow in order to rest her head on it. She lied down under a big pointy rock, as if it were a cave, and waited for sleep to come to her. With her eyes closed, she could not help but think of what had happened. How many times had she fought for her life before? How many times had she escaped the deadly grasp of death? How many times had she rose from the darkness more alive than ever? This time would not be any different. She thought of Sansa, of Jon, of how she wished she had spent more time in Winterfell with them. A deserted island was no place for a wolf, but she had to fight this battle too, and she had to win.

What do we say to the God of Death?, Arya thought, feeling the darkness getting the best of her, too exhausted to stay awake. Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, e.g. how the story is progressing, etc. Don't be shy!


	5. A Stray Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up injured and in a stranger's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Jon POV. Next chapter will be Jonsa.

**Jon**

 

“Father! Father! He’s awake!”

A high-pitched voice pierced Jon’s ears. He instinctively rubbed his temple with his thumb, and opened his eyes. His head hurt, and his thigh stung as he tried to sit himself up on the creaky bed he did not recognise at his. The mattress his sore body was lying on was stuffed with straw, and a cheap wooden headboard dug in the naked skin of his back. Jon looked around himself for a short moment, until his brown eyes met those of a young girl, full of freckles on her pale face, he had never seen before. In a rapid gesture, he covered his bare chest with the crumpled up bedsheet all stained with his own dried blood.

A bald man appeared, his clothes smeared with mud. A farmer, Jon thought.He dragged a wooden chair near Jon’s bed and sat in front of him, the young girl still standing by her father’s side. Now they were both staring at him, and he could not help but blush like a young boy. 

“How do you feel?”, the man asked with a kind smile. Jon had always been wary of strangers, but the man’s brown eyes seemed trustworthy. His gaze moved from him, to the girl, then back to him again.

“I’ve been better”, Jon replied, his voice hoarse as if he had not spoken in thousands of years. He lowered his gaze to his right thigh, and moved the bedsheet away with his trembling hand. A yellowish thick cloth was wrapped around his flesh, all covered in dark dry blood. He gasped, but tried not to look afraid of what he had just seen. He tried to remember how he had ended up there, half-naked and injured in a stranger’s house, but his head was still hazy and his memories seemed too far away for him to grasp.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it, you didn’t move for days”, the man spoke again, gesturing at his deep wound. “I treated you with what we had, but I didn’t know if it’d be enough”.

“Thank you”, Jon said, smiling softly. Days? he wondered. How long did I sleep?

“How did you get those?”, the girl asked gesturing at the old scars on his chest, hardened by time yet never fully healed. Jon gulped, and wished they had not noticed them. “Are you a knight?”, she asked again, watching him with her big hazel eyes, very close in resemblance to her father’s.

“Forgive my daughter”, the man said, gently grabbing her arm. “She’s just curious. And she loves songs about maidens and knights”, he added, ruffling her reddish hair, which made her laugh.

I know someone who loves those songs, too, Jon thought to himself. 

“Don’t worry”, he said, giving her a warm smile, hoping he could actually manage to dodge her question. “I was curious too when I was her age”. And it was true. He had always been a quiet child, but that did not mean that he did not observe everything that happened around him. That was one of the many things that he had in common with Arya. Ah, Arya. His heart ached in concern when his mind wandered to her. The reason he had left Castle Black. The reason an arrow had almost killed him.

Then, he remembered another thing. His eyes widened.

“Have you… have you seen a wolf?”, he asked the man, scratching the tangled curls at the bottom of his neck. “A white wolf?”

“No”, the man replied, looking over his right at her daughter, who, in the meanwhile, had pulled a chair across the room and was now sitting next to his father. They both shook their head. “Wolves don’t usually roam around here. We’re too far from the forests”.

Jon sighed, looking down at his lap. He knew that Ghost had to be somewhere, perhaps hunting, perhaps wandering around like he always liked doing when they went north of the Wall, yet he could not stop thinking about him, worried that something had happened to him. He must be alive, Jon thought to himself, otherwise I would _feel_ it, wouldn’t I?

“Where are we exactly?”, Jon asked, looking in the direction of the small window on the opposite wall. From his bed, he could barely see the blue sky and nothing else, yet the soft morning light that entered through it comforted him.

“Near Last Hearth”, the man replied. “Your horse brought you here”.

“My horse?”

“Yes”, this time the girl replied. “He fainted after you arrived. He must’ve carried you for a long time, but he’s fine now. We cured him as well”.

Jon thanked them, and wondered how long he had been half-dead on that horse. 

Last Hearth. Winterfell was getting closer, but it was still too far away. Jon could barely move, and certainly he could not walk. How was he supposed to reach the castle? How was he supposed to reach _Sansa_? He wondered whether news of his escape had already reached her. Ravens must have flown through the northern skies, he thought, and his brothers could be out there, somewhere, looking for him. His body was stiff and aching, but Jon could not wait any longer. He had to go.

“Where are my clothes?”, he asked, trying to resist the pain that arose from his fresh wound.

“I tried to clean them”, the man replied. “But the furs were tricky. Too tangled. Your sword is in the other room, too. Nice blade, by the way”.

“Thank you”, Jon said, looking down, face pale as Longclaw’s wolf head pommel.

“Why were you dressed like that?”, the young girl asked, making Jon gulp again.

“Enough with the questions, Lucye”, her father reproached her, and she looked down at her feet, mumbling a _sorry_. “Why don’t you bring him some of our fresh milk? He must be thirsty”.

The girl rushed on her short legs, out of the room, and came back after a short while with a cup full of warm milk.

“It’s all right”, Jon said, taking the cup from her freckled hand. “It’s just… I have to go”. He sighed, sipping on the milk.

“Go?”, the man asked, confused. “You should rest”.

“I can’t”, Jon insisted, trying not to look too desperate. “I must go home”.

“Why are you in such a rush?”, the man asked giving him a bewildered look. Jon was starting to breathe faster and faster, warm air coming out of his flared nostrils. He could not tell him that he had escaped from Castle Black and tens of the Night’s Watch men were after him, but he had to go, one way or another. And he had to do it quickly.

“My wife is about to give birth”, he exclaimed, before his brain could actually process the lie that had just escaped from his dry lips. “And if I don’t hurry up…”.

“All right, all right”. The man stood up and gestured with his hands that he had heard enough. “We’ll leave for the winter town market in a few hours. You could come with us”. The man did not look convinced at all, but Jon tried not to look as if he were a young boy busted by his mother for stealing biscuits from the kitchen. “Is the winter town near where you live?” the man asked, grabbing the empty cup from Jon’s trembling hand.

“Aye”, he simply replied, pursing his lips together.

“It’s settled, then. Pray the gods that you won’t faint again. We’re not bringing medications with us”.

Jon nodded, and followed the two as they walked towards the door next to his bed. He was about to lay down to relax his stiff limbs when the man took a step back and addressed him again. 

“I didn’t ask… what is your name?” the man asked.

“Jon”, he replied, glancing up at him next to the doorframe.

“Ah”. He tilted his head and smiled cunningly as if he had just put two and two together. “I’ve heard that a certain Jon is missing from Castle Black”, he said, giving him one last look before leaving the room. 

Jon swallowed, hard, and tried to appear as calm as possible, even now that the farmer was gone, but his eyes remained wide open. As the door closed behind the man, whose name was still unknown to Jon, he covered his eyes with both hands and rubbed them, letting out an exhausted sigh. ‘Too close’, he thought to himself. ‘Too close’.

__________

 

When Jon opened his eyes again, after a short nap filled with confusing dreams of wolves and swords, it was because of the noises that originated from outside. Metals clinking distantly, he heard, along with the loud cackling of hens. He pushed himself up on his arms, sitting up, biting his lower lip as he tried to resist the pain of his fresh wound. He wanted to stand up, but no one was there to help him. Finally, the man appeared, now dressed in cleaner clothes. He placed his arm around Jon’s waist, to help him stand up. Jon tried to make himself as light as possible, and found that shifting his weight on his left leg made the other hurt less. He dragged his right foot on the floor, as the man helped him with his boots. When he had finished helping him get dressed, his black furs were draped over his shoulders again, and Longclaw was back in his sheath. Jon looked down at its pommel and sighed, thinking of Ghost. He prayed to see him again, soon.

“Are you sure you can make it to the winter town?” the man asked Jon, helping him out of the room. “It will take us a few days”.

“I can”, he replied. 

After he stepped outside, Jon was blinded by the sunlight. A few cotton clouds wandered here and there, pushed by soft spring winds. He brought a hand to his eyes, covering them, and gazed around. Green plains stretched as far as the eye could see, rising to form soft hills with crystal streams, whose waters were once frozen, hardened by the stinging ice. Jon had forgotten what the North looked like when it was not winter, and the sight of all that deep green made his heart beat in solace. The air was crisp against his skin, but his blood did not feel as if it were about to freeze in his veins like it used to. Jon took a deep breath, letting the cool air refresh his lungs, and slowly moved around holding onto a wooden stick the man had given him for support. Jon followed the trail of grey stones amidst soft grass, staggering towards the back of the small farm. There, he and his daughter were preparing their wooden wagon, loading it with the many goods of their own making, such as green and red apples, white shiny eggs, soft pink ham and freshly-baked bread.

“Are you ready to go?”, the man asked him, sweat drops on his forehead shining like pearls.

Jon simply nodded and waited for the two of them to help him hop on the back of the wagon. His thigh still hurt as if that arrow was still there, piercing his flesh, but he tried to disguise the pain as well as he could. As soon as two horses started carrying them, Jon watched the horizon become smaller and smaller as they moved farther away from the lands of the true North, still covered in snow, from which he had run away like that deserter he had seen his father behead before his very own eyes many years ago. His _father_. Could he still call him that? What would have meant for him if he had known from the very beginning who he really was? Perhaps Lord Stark would have let him sit at the main table. Perhaps his wife, Lady Catelyn, would not have looked at him with those stern and unforgiving eyes. Perhaps, Jon knew this could have happened as well, he would have been betrothed to Arya, or to Sansa. He remembered hearing Theon once saying that Lord Stark could have betrothed him to her. Jon laughed back then at Theon’s ridiculous proposition. My lord father would never make that kraken marry his daughter, he had thought. And a stray wolf, instead? A stray wolf who broke oath after oath and who slain his own kin? Jon shook his head. As the man’s farm with grey stone walls and a few windows disappeared from his sight, and the slow pace of the wagon cradled him to sleep, Jon closed his eyes and, for a short moment, imagined he was in Winterfell, surrounded by burning hearths and never-ending wine warming up his stomach and his heart. 

__________

 

After travelling for many long days and stopping at various inns to rest, the three travellers reached the winter town, which was crawling with merchants and wooden stalls for all kinds of goods. Its streets were muddy, and Jon’s black boots had turned to a dirty shade of brown. His heart was already starting to beat like a drum, his blood flowing with excitement. Winterfell was near, only a few miles away, and it was waiting for him to return.

“How does your leg feel?” the farmer asked him, his hands filled with a bunch of Golden Dragons he had just earned after selling fruit and eggs.

“It hurts less”, Jon lied. The truth was that it had never stopped hurting, his thigh, still bandaged and weak like a the leg of a wolf pup. He, however, was willing to resist as much as possible, now that his home was near, like in his dreams.

The farmer helped Jon sit on the horse that had brought him to his house, several moons ago, and the two prepared to part ways.

“Look”, the man leaned in closer to Jon, almost whispering, which caught him by surprise. “I didn’t ask you where you came from or why you had an arrow impaled in your leg, but I’m no fool”. Jon gulped, trying not to look shaken by the man’s words. “Just”, he sighed. “Take care of yourself, alright? You seem like a good lad. Winter might be over, but the world is not free of perils”.

“Thank you”, Jon replied, relieved. He gently pulled the reins as to make the horse start walking. 

“Congratulations for your babe, by the way”, the man shouted with a sly smile when Jon was already a few feet from him.

It took Jon one second to make sense of his words, and when he remembered, he smiled and waved with his gloved hand. 

He gave him one last shy smile before turning his head towards the Great Keep of Winterfell, which was close and far at the same time, its tall towers and battlements painted against the light blue horizon as the crisp northern winds kissed his dark eyelashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and let me know what you think. I would love to read your opinions! xx


	6. Sometimes Prayers Are Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. I hope you'll like it too!

**Sansa**

 

“How do you like it, your Grace?”

Sansa was sitting in her bedchambers, the morning light leaking through the window pane and illuminating one side of her face. She looked at her own reflection in the rectangular mirror with a tarnished silver frame resting on her wooden vanity. Her long auburn hair fell in ringlets on her shoulders, and two plaits running from both her temples met at the back of her head, high, twisted in a thousand turns to form a flower whose petals were thick and scarlet. For a short moment, Sansa swore she saw her mother’s reflection instead of her own. She shook her head, picked up a brush from her jewellery box and handed it to the young handmaiden who was standing behind her.

“It’s lovely, Mira. You’re improving day after day”.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’m glad you like it”. The girl’s cheeks turned pink and a proud smile appeared on her lips. She started gently brushing Sansa’s hair, at a regular pace, and added some bone pins to secure her tresses. “After all that time in King’s Landing, I had almost forgotten how to do hair the northern way”.

“I see”, Sansa said in a wise tone. “The capital can have a certain… effect”, she added, sighing. “It’s good that you’re back in the North, then”.

“Yes, Your Grace. When House Stark took back the North, I was so happy to come home”. Mira let down the brush in front of Sansa. “My poor brother, though… he shouldn’t have died”. She sighed, remembering how her younger brother had been put to the knife by Ramsay Bolton himself.

“The Boltons hurt everyone”, Sansa said, turning around to face the handmaiden. “They were horrible people, but they’re gone, and we’re still here”. Her voice was resolute and firm, no room for the sadness which once used to haunt her. She knew what troubled feelings were flowing through Mira’s heart, how could she not? She had seen even worse than her, and sometimes it still hurt. But she did not want another young girl to weep like she had done so many times before.

“It’s true, Your Grace. We’re still here”. A timid smile bloomed on Mira’s lips and her eyes seemed to be regaining hope. “We’re still here”.

When her hair was done, Sansa stood up and dismissed her handmaiden. She quickly left the room, her skirts flowing behind her, leaving her all alone. Sansa stood tall in front of the floor mirror in the corner of her chamber, next to the window. Her dress was light grey and long enough to cover her feet. Its sleeves were embroidered with the leaves of the heart tree, and the corset was embellished with a thousand small pearls, forming a direwolf head that shone like a constellation in the unclouded night sky. Thick white furs enriched the collar, and her needle necklace was hidden under it, resting on her chest. 

Sansa’s stomach rumbled in hunger. The sky was becoming light blue, as the sun prepared to illuminate Winterfell, and it was time for her to break fast with her visiting brother and his court. 

As Sansa left the room and closed the tall wooden door behind her, she smiled at Ser Brienne, who had been guarding her chambers from early in the morning. 

“Good morning, Your Grace”, Ser Brienne said, smiling at her.

“Good morning, Brienne”, Sansa replied. “How did you sleep?”, she asked.

“Quite well, Your Grace. Thank you”.

“How did it go with lord Tyrion?”, Sansa asked, as she walked down the corridor and Brienne followed her, walking next to her.

“He was quite happy, I would say”. Brienne replied, looking down shyly, incapable of holding a smile back.

“I’m glad to hear it. I had no doubt he would be. Lord Tyrion is a good man, after all”.

“Yes, Your Grace. He is”.

The morning room was invaded by the smell of crispy bacon, freshly baked bread and buttered biscuits, and many servants rushed with platters filled with food and cups. 

Sansa seated herself at Bran’s table, where Ser Podrick, Samwell and Tyrion were also seated. The three men rose from their seats to greet her, and after she sat herself in the middle between Bran and Brienne, they sat down as well.

“Your Grace, I had forgotten how good the northern ale is”, Tyrion said, rising up his filled cup.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your stay, lord Tyrion”. Sansa smiled at him, as a servant approached her. “Some bread and butter, please. Oh, and some blueberry pie”. The man bowed and left for the kitchens.

“We barely slept last night”, Sam said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his pale hand while taking a sip of water. “Trying to figure out where Arya might be and why the ravens can’t see her”.

“This has never happened”. It was now Bran’s turn to speak. “I wish I could help more”, he said in a resigned tone, turning over at his left, looking at Sansa with dark circles under his eyes, purple like ripe plums.

“It’s all right, Bran”. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed it softly. “You should get some rest, or you’ll wear yourself out”. Bran nodded, and Sansa poured him a cup of fresh water. He picked it up and drank, and she smiled at him, gently caressing his cheek. For a moment, he looked as if he were little again, with his brown eyes and his sweet freckles scattered on his nose. Sometimes, Sansa would get lost in a fantasy in which she was still a child, and she played around Winterfell with her siblings, the ones she still had and the ones she had lost, with mother and father watching them. Such thoughts were sweet, but Sansa knew they could not last, for reality was different and indulging in them was not possible.

Another servant arrived with food for Sansa. She took a bite of blueberry pie, sweet like sugar against her tongue, yet she missed the taste of lemoncakes. She could not even remember the last time she had eaten one, and she longed to feel their sweet and sour taste under her teeth again.

“And how many ships do we have?” Sansa asked, her lips blue because of the blueberries.

“Ser Davos says not enough, Your Grace. We’ll need more, if we want to venture past the Sunset Sea”, Tyrion replied, holding a slice of crispy bacon with his fingers and biting into it.

“Of course”, Sansa said, weeping her mouth with a cotton napkin. “Yara Greyjoy still hasn’t given us an answer. I hope she does soon”.

“Do you believe she’ll help us?” Brienne asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If Theon were alive, he would”, Sansa said, a hint of sadness over her eyes. “He fought with us, he died for Bran. If she intends to honour her late brother’s memory, she will”.

After his plate had been emptied, Tyrion stood up from his seat, bowed to Sansa and prepared to leave. Ser Podrick followed as well, guiding Bran’s wheelchair away from the high table. Sansa watched them as they left the morning room, disappearing through one of the many tall doors. Sam was ready to go too, but he first stopped to talk to her.

“Your Grace”, he began. “Have you heard from Jon?” he asked, fidgeting with his hands.

“No, Sam. We haven’t received any raven from Castle Black”.

“I see, Your Grace. Thank you”. The man bowed, the crystals of his order clinking at his neck, and left.

Jon. She thought of him. She imagined what he would feel while reading her scroll. She imagined what the nature of his emotions would be. She thought of her own words carved onto the yellowish parchment, tight between his fingers. She thought about him, about his impenetrable eyes, always staring off into the distance, impossible to read, even for her. She thought about what he would do _after_ reading her scroll. Deep down, in the most undisclosed corners of her heart, she secretly hoped he would storm out of Castle Black, galloping to Winterfell, _to her_. _Oh_ , how alone she had been in the past year. Only memories had seemed to keep her warm, yet they would always leave a bitter taste in her mouth once they faded away. The Red Wolf, they would call her. A lonely wolf I am, she thought, for her pack was gone, their howling lost in the wind. It would be easier if Jon were here, she thought every time she looked at the empty seat next to her in the Great Hall. Could she still dream of a knight on a horse to come to her rescue? This time, though, she did not need to be rescued. All she longed for was a familiar shoulder to lean on. What is a wolf without its pack? _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_ , she recited in her mind.

She went back to her morning food before it was too much.

“Your Grace”, Ser Brienne said, glancing at her with worried eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Brienne. You needn’t worry”. She took a last sip of water and rose from her seat, adjusting her gown. “I just need to take a walk”.

They both left the room, Brienne following her, loyal yet discreet, like a shadow. When Sansa stepped outside of the Great Keep, the crisp spring air tickled her skin. Her cheeks turned pink, like peaches on a tree, and her lashes fluttered in the morning winds. She dismissed Brienne, who did not divert her eyes from her as she crossed the main courtyard and disappeared through a small gate, heading for the godswood.

When she was younger, Sansa favoured her mother’s gods over her father’s. With their human faces and names, she felt closer to them than the faceless old gods. She sighed as she walked, her boots digging in the soft mud, remembering how she had spent so many sleepless nights wishing she had been born in the colourful South instead of the grey North. How silly she had been, wilfully diverting her naive eyes from what she already had. She had to lose everything as to appreciate it. Innocent eyes, hers were, blue like the sky upon her.

Sansa walked through the grove, trees untouched for thousands of years, more ancient than Winterfell, and she stopped in front of the heart tree. She approached it slowly, her steps the only thing that could be heard. The air was still, mystical. It was the air of the North, and it flowed through her veins as well. She removed a glove and reached out with her bare hand and slowly placed it on the harsh bark, white like her skin. She felt its coldness beneath her shivering fingertips. She traced the corners of the face carved in the trunk, stern and melancholic, like she was. She closed her eyes. She breathed. She felt lonely, she felt worried. For Arya, for Jon. Where were they? Could they reach her? Could they hear her if she called their names? Was she supposed to pray for them? No, Sansa did not pray anymore. She had long prayed to go south and what had happened? Tears and blood flowed wildly like a river of sorrow and loss. What if her prayers were answered again? What if her hopes turned to terrible nightmares again? No, she would not pray. She just sat there, by the pond, in front of the heart tree, listening to the unknown songs the rustling of red leaves, like her hair, would susurrate. She sat on a rock covered in soft muss and stared at her own reflection on the cold water. All the snow had melted, and the ground was dark green again, like it had not been in many years. Now winter was gone and Sansa was Queen in the North. _Oh_ , how things had changed.

She closed her lids and enjoyed the cool air, her gloved hands folded in her lap. She opened her eyes in terror when she heard a growl coming from behind her.

Petrified, Sansa wanted to turn, but she was too scared to do so. Her heart started beating faster, so fast that she could hear her blood pumping in her ears. She heard slow steps on the crackling leaves, one after the other, too soft to be human. With all the courage she managed to find, she turned her head, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips after she saw what was lurking behind her.

“Ghost!” she exclaimed, standing up and walking around the rock she had been sitting on. The direwolf let out a soft moan, and Sansa knelt in front of him, her knees plunged among the dead red leaves, to scratch his head. “How did you make it till here?”, she asked, and he licked her face with his rough tongue.

Sansa laughed as the wolf rubbed his huge head against her cheek. As she ran her fingers through his white fur, a question started going around her mind.

“Wait”. Her hand stopped moving and rested on his fur. “If you’re here, where is J-”

“Open the gates!” She heard in the distance, a thunder of screams breaking in the sky. “Open the gates!” She heard again.

She quickly rose to her feet and rushed to the main gate, lifting her grey gown with her hands as not to trip on it, Ghost trotting behind her.

When she reached Winterfell’s courtyard, tens of servants and guards alike were crowding it. She could not see what there was beyond them, so she she made her way through all of them, a corridor opening in front of her as they moved aside to let her through. After she had made it past the crowd, her whole body froze at the sight of what was before her very eyes.

“Jon!” She gasped in utter disbelief, rushing to him, who had just fallen from the horse that was carrying him. She fell on her knees and slid a hand under his body, behind his head. “Jon! Can you hear me?” she yelled, cradling him, cupping his cheek with her other hand. His face was sweaty and pale, and his lips were blue. His eyes, _empty_. He reached out with his hand but his fingers, trembling and stained with blood, fell lifeless on his own chest. Horrified, Sansa looked down at his body, shivering at the sight of his thigh all covered in fresh blood black like coals. “Jon!”

“Sansa”, he murmured. He grinned at her, smiling like a fool, like the fool he was, then fainted in her arms.

“Quick! Help him! Call the Maester!” she yelled at the guards around her.

In the pandemonium around her, someone told her something, but she did not hear.

Then, a shiver ran down her spine. Sometimes prayers are answered, she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments!


	7. I Will Bend The Knee To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is there when Jon wakes up.

**Sansa**

 

Sansa let out another exasperated sigh. 

She had not slept very well these past few days, and had spent most of her free time watching over Jon as he lay still on his featherbed. After that day at the gates of Winterfell, Jon had not opened his eyes at all, save for a brief moment whilst Maester Wolkan was stitching the deep wound that cracked his thigh open from side to side, like a terrible river of blood. He had given him some milk of the poppy, but after taking two sips, Jon fainted again. He had not opened his eyes not even when Bran, Sam and Ser Davos had come visit him. Maester Wolkan had assured her repeatedly that he would recover, but every time Sansa dared look at his stiff and immobile body, lips slightly parted and eyes motionless, she could not help but feel a shiver run down her spine, colder than winter. He had seen worse than that, she told herself, yet this thought was not of any comfort. She was now sitting in front of the burning hearth, in the bedchamber that used to be his and had been empty for countless moons. His bed was on the opposite side of the room, next to the door. Sansa made sure that the hearth was always burning, day and night, and Ghost would sometimes lie down in front of it, catching some warmth, before going back at his master’s side. 

Sansa would divert her tired eyes from her needlework every now and then, glancing at him in case he suddenly moved, back to life, but that had yet to happen. Her lids felt heavy as stones, and her hands did not seem to respond to her anymore. She longed for a long hot bath, with candles all around her and scented oils, yet she had no intention of leaving.

She sighed again, louder than before. When she was younger, her needlework was always impeccable, much to her sister Arya's great dismay. She would make her own clothes, sewing until her fingers hurt, her heart full of pride at the sight of a perfect embroidery. Now, she had spent hours on a that wooden chair, trying to sew something for Jon, yet her needles did not obey to her commands.

She let down the mess of leather and fabric on her lap, along with her sewing needles. She stared at the fire, looking straight into the red flames, until her eyes stung. She stretched her long bare fingers in front of the blazes and moved them as they warmed them up. She took a deep breath, then resumed her work. A cloak, she wanted to make, like the one she had gifted him before the Battle of the Bastards. After he had left for the Wall, she donated all his clothes to the poor men of the winter town, who had lost most of their scarce belongings during the Long Night. Sansa wished Jon had still been there to wear those furs, those leathers, those direwolf heads emblazoned on his chest, yet Winterfell was no more his home. Now, he had returned, and he had only brought with him his dirty and battered black clothes of the Night’s Watch. His breeches were stained so deeply with his own blood that all she could do was throw them into one of the many fires that warmed Winterfell up, which had eaten them in a single scorching bite. 

Sansa pulled a long thread of brown wool out of her sewing basket and tried to pierce the leather to stitch some fabric into it, but her needle stung her forefinger instead.

She bit her lip, holding back a small cry and angrily threw the leather and needles into the basket on her lap. She rubbed her eyes, trying to soothe her own frustrations.

“What are you doing?”

Sansa twirled around to face Jon, fast as a cat, and rose from her chair, dropping her basket on the wooden floor. She rushed towards him, in utter disbelief. By the short time she reached his bed, Ghost had already jumped on it, lying close to him. 

“Jon”, she said, almost a whisper, sitting herself on the edge of his bed, careful not to hurt his wounded leg. He smelt of sweat and leather, that familiar scent she had never forgotten. “How do you feel?”

“Sansa”, he said, as Ghost nuzzled up against his face, licking the skin where his beard had been growing wild for weeks, framing his jaw. “Seven hells, you look terrible”.

“ _What_?” Sansa scoffed. “How dare you?” She slapped his arm with a furious look on her face. Was he still under the effect of the milk of the poppy?

“I mean, look at you. You’ve got”, he said in a hoarse voice, gesturing at her eyes with slow hands, “dark circles”.

 _Oh_ , that was what he meant.

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, until a minute ago, you looked pretty _dead_ ”, she fired back, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

He chuckled, and she relaxed. “All right. Fair enough”.

Both of them were smiling now. Sansa reached out for the water carafe on his bedside table, poured him a cup and handed it to him. He pushed himself up on his arms, sitting up and resting his back against the oaken headboard.

“What happened to you?” she asked, even though she believed she already knew the answer.

“The Night’s Watch”. _Of course_ , she thought. “They tried to catch me. They couldn’t, but they left me with this”, he concluded, gesturing at his thigh, hidden under heavy furs. He took a sip of water.

“And who helped you? How did you make it till here?”

“A farmer, near Last Hearth. I stayed with him and his daughter for days. He was kind”.

“Well, that’s good. Maester Wolkan said you’ll recover in a few weeks”.

“I hope so”. Jon concluded, lowering his gaze and placing the cup on the bedside table. Pain flashed in his eyes as he moved, and Sansa pretended not to notice. It pained her to see him like this, wounded and aching, but she would lie if she said she was not happy to be with him again.

“It was bizarre how Ghost came to me before you arrived”, she said, breaking the silence that had been hovering over their heads for a short while. The direwolf tilted his huge head to face her, and she scratched his soft ears, his thick fur running through her long fingers.

“I was worried about him. He was not with me when the farmer took me in”, Jon added, petting him as well. For a brief moment, their fingers touched, brushing softly against each other, and Sansa felt a comforting warmth inside her, a warmth she had been missing for a long time when she had been alone in Winterfell ever since that day on that pier in King’s Landing, when they had last seen each other.

“I’m sorry, by the way”, he said, a sigh escaping from his lips.

“For what?”, she asked in a confused tone. She folded her hands on her lap, and tried to figure out the reason why he felt the urge to apologise to her, but nothing came to her tired mind.

“For not bending the knee”, he said, looking mortified. “I would kneel now, but-”

“ _Oh_ , please”, she scoffed, struggling to hold back a laugh. “Don’t be silly. You don’t need to bend the knee”.

“I do”, he insisted. Sansa had forgotten how stubborn he could be. “You’re my queen, and-”

“Stop it, Jon”, she cut him short, perhaps too harshly, judging from how wide his brown eyes grew now. A light shade of pink spread on her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “I’m your sister, and I don’t care if you kneel or not”.

“ _Cousin_ ”, he rectified her.

“What?” That took her by surprise. “Why are you pointing that out?”

He shrugged, breaking eye contact. However, Sansa could not help but wonder what was the point of that.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Come in”, Sansa called out, standing up and adjusting her gown.

Shivering from the cold and with his cheeks bright red, Sam appeared. When he noticed Jon was awake, he gasped and let out a small cry, as if he were a surprised little child.

Sansa took a few steps away from his bed, with her hands folded in front of her, watching Ser Davos enter as he pushed Bran’s wheelchair. They all took turns to talk to Jon, asking how he felt, and Davos even joked that he was too hard to kill. Jon laughed, and said he did not wish to defy the gods. It was all so familiar, to her. So heart-warming. Jon and Bran, and Jon’s friends, the people she had learned to know when they were preparing for the Long Night, within these very walls. It had been a terrible war, and they had lost many other people closed to them, but sometimes light can be found even in the darkest of nights. Sometimes, Sansa thought, love can bloom even in the aridest of deserts.

“So, no news of Arya?” Jon asked Bran, who looked at him with his impenetrable gaze.

“No”, he replied, simply, his hands folded on his lap.

“We don’t know why His Grace can’t see her”, Sam added. “But we’re working on it”.

“I see”, Jon said, a resigned look on his face.

“We’ll find her”, Sansa said firmly, stepping closer to the small group of men, who all turned to look at her.

“I hope so”, Bran concluded, stoic, and his words lingered over them like a truth too hard to swallow.

“Jon must be exhausted. Let’s let him rest”, Ser Davos said in his thick accent, guiding Bran away.

After they all departed, Sansa was alone with Jon again, and Ghost had fallen asleep on his featherbed, next to him. His soft snoring was the only noise in the room along with the crackling of the flames, yet a tedious headache began to torment Sansa’s mind.

“You should rest as well”, Jon said. He was right. He was awake now, there was no need for her to watch over him anymore. And her needlework could wait.

Without a word, Sansa walked towards the burning hearth and picked up her sewing basket. A long thread of grey wool was hanging out of it, swinging as she moved across the room. She looked out of the window, her back to Jon. It was almost dusk, and innumerable streaks of orange and purple light were painted across the sky surrounding Winterfell. Sansa pulled the heavy tapestries, closing them, and the fire and some lit candles scattered here and there were now the only sources of light. 

She walked over to Jon and smiled at him. “Scream if you need anything”, she teased him with a sly smile on her pink lips.

“I hope I won’t wake you”, he said as he lay down, moving slowly, thick furs covering his sore body.

She already had her hand on the door handle when he spoke again. “Sansa”, he said. She whirled to face him. “I will bend the knee to you one day”.

She scoffed again, and gave him another one of her smiles, then left the room.

When she reached her bedchambers, Sansa could barely walk in a straight line. She let her sewing basket on the floor, next to her armoire, and quickly worked the lace of her grey corset with her exhausted fingers. She shimmied out of her long dress, one leg and then the other, and the gown fell on the floor. She picked it up and draped it over the back of a chair, and removed both her boots, putting them aside. She walked towards her vanity, on top of which a long candle was burning next to her silver mirror, casting a warm golden hue upon her ivory skin. She removed the numerous bone pins from her hair, untangled her elaborate plaits and pulled her long scarlet mane to the side, over one naked shoulder. She picked her silver brush up and started running it through her thick scarlet hair, slowly and gently, until it was soft and silky to the touch, shining like molten copper. Sansa put the brush back into her jewellery box and brushed her crown lightly with a finger, tracing the shape of its glistening stones. How silly had been Jon? He wanted to bend the knee to her. Sansa smiled absentmindedly when she realised that he had never seen her wear her crown. She shut the box and walked towards her bed. She slid herself under the covers, sighing with relief when her naked legs brushed against the cold bedsheets. Her eyes closed before she could find a comfortable position. That night, for the first time in a long time, Sansa slept well, nestled within the warm walls of Winterfell, her slumber full of dreams and not even one ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think of this chapter and the whole story. Feedback is always appreciated!


	8. We Need To Trust Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa meet in the crypts of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying writing this, especially the Jonsa parts. Enjoy!

**Jon**

 

 

“Your leg is getting better by the day,” said Sam, after examining Jon’s stitched wound up close. The skin around it had turned to a deep shade of purple, and it was swollen and hard to the touch. “You’re lucky you’re healing fast.” He rose on his feet and started crushing some mysterious herbs in a stone mortar, his shining crystals clinking with every move.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Jon said skeptically from the wooden chair he was sitting on. “I wouldn’t consider myself _that_ lucky.”

“You’re lucky you’re _alive_ ,” Sam replied, scratching his nose. Tears caused by the crushed ingredients started running down his cheeks, and Jon made a face and wished he did not have to drink the disgusting concoction Sam was preparing for him. “You’re too pessimistic,” Sam continued, pouring the dark green mixture into a cup and weeping away his small tears from his reddish cheeks. “Drink this and you’ll heal even faster.”

He handed Jon the cup and he skeptically examined the stinky mush inside it. He shut his eyes, many little wrinkles forming at the corners of them, and gulped it all down, trying not to puke.

“Are you sure you’re not trying to kill me?” Jon asked Sam with a half smile, his tongue all itchy.

“If I killed you, your sister would cut me in a million pieces,” he replied. “Queen Sansa is a kind woman, but I don’t want to try her patience.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t either,” Jon said, chuckling. He started rubbing his temples. “We haven’t even talked about… whah happens after.”

“After?” Sam asked, turning to face Jon with a bewildered look on his puffy face as he put some heavy glass jars back into a drawer.

“The Night’s Watch.” Jon sighed. “I’m a deserter, Sam,” he concluded, his dark eyebrows knitting together on his forehead.

“But she’s the queen. She won’t execute you.”

“I know, but… if she pardons me, what will the other brothers do?”

Sam remained silent for a moment. “They might want to be pardoned, too.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “I can’t burden her with that. She’s got too much on her plate already.”

Jon turned his head to the side, looking out of one of the many high windows of Maester Wolkan’s solar. It was one of the most illuminated chambers of the Great Keep, and it overlooked the inner courtyard where Ser Brienne and Ser Garred, the new master-at-arms at Winterfell, were training many young boys of the northern families. It was an honour for the bannermen’s families to send their sons to Winterfell, and now more than ever the crown needed new soldiers. The Great War had decimated the northern army, and seeing all these young boys swing their wooden swords with pride made Jon’s wound hurt a little less. Most of them were sixteen of age, and others were even younger than that. They reminded him of Robb and him, of how they would train every day with their wooden swords, dreaming of swinging a real blade one day. Jon’s heart-shaped lips curved in a nostalgic smile as his thoughts wandered to the brothers he had lost. As if he had sensed the melancholy in his heart, Ghost trotted towards him and nuzzled up against his leg. Jon reached out with one hand to scratch his head, his soft fur running through his calloused fingers.

“How are Gilly and little Melessa?” Jon asked Sam as he helped him stand up. His leg was not as weak as when he had arrived in Winterfell, but it still stung whenever he moved.

“Oh, very well. Melessa walks already. Well, she mostly stumbles, but she’s growing fast,” he replied, a shining smile blooming on his lips.

“I’m glad to hear this,” Jon said.

“I wish I could see them more often, though. Gilly doesn’t want to live in the capital all alone, so they’re staying at Horn Hill, with my lady mother and sister.”

“Why don’t you invite them here?” Jon asked, walking slowly towards the door with the help of a walking cane Maester Wolkan had crafted for him. “They could stay with us as long as you’re here.”

“I would love that,” Sam said, smiling shyly. “But it would be too long a journey for the two of them. Moreover, the southern climate is much more favourable for little Melessa.”

“You know, children grow well here, too,” Jon said, teasing Sam.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. I’m sure your children will be strong, someday,” Sam replied, as they walked down one of Winterfell’s many cold corridors.

“I will never father any children,” Jon scoffed, trying to hide any hint of bitterness from his hardened eyes. He had dared to dream of holding a newborn child in his arms when he were younger, but now it was a dream too far from him. What would he have taught his children? He did not want to bring into the world any child that might resemble him in character, as his actions brought shame to him every time he woke up in the morning and remembered what he had done in King’s Landing almost one year before. No, he would never father any children, for they would be bastards, like he had always been.

The two walked silently, Sam close behind Jon as he struggled to walk in a straight line. His muscles tensed every time he lifted his cane to take another step, his heart feeling even heavier in his chest as soon as they approached the main hall. _Queenslayer_ , they would whisper as he passed, the very same lords who had chosen him to be their King in the North after Sansa and he had retaken Winterfell. Jon tried to keep an impenetrable face as he walked, burying his feelings deep inside him where nobody would find them, but he would lie if he said that he was not hurt by all those poisonous whispers behind his back. After many years, he felt as if he were that bastard boy again, that stranger in his father’s home which would never become his own.

“Ignore them,” Sam whispered to him, close to his ear. “You know who you are.”

Jon smiled tenderly at Sam, his trusting eyes smiling back at him, shining like when he had first met him at the cold Wall, when he was an awkward boy too scared to even defend himself from the other brothers. Jon gazed in front of him again, as the doors to the inner courtyard opened before them, cold winds messing his dark curls up. _I know who I am_ , Jon thought, sighing. _I know that all too well_.

When they stepped into the huge courtyard, Jon felt a shiver of cold run down his spine, and was glad to be all covered in warm furs. With Sam and Ghost by his side, he limped towards the crypts, but was approached by Tyrion, who was standing alone in one of the corners of the courtyard.

“I see you’ve made your way back here, Jon Snow,” Tyrion said.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon greeted him. “It’s only temporary.”

“How is that?” Tyrion asked him, looking at him with confused green eyes. “You’re leaving your home?”

“This is not my home.” Jon’s wound stung as if he had been impaled again. “My place is at the Wall. I’m sure you remember that well,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I do remember that.” Tyrion sighed and turned his head towards the young boys who were training a few feet from them. Jon glanced at them as well. Some of them were born to fight, he thought, others not so much, but Ser Brienne and Ser Garred were patient and encouraging to them, just like Ser Rodrik had been to him and Robb when they were the ones swinging wooden swords as young boys.

“So,” Tyrion broke the silence and spoke again. “When are you going to Arya’s rescue?”

“I’m not sure. We need more ships… at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“You’ve _heard_?” Tyrion turned his body completely to face Jon. “You haven’t talked about it with Queen Sansa?”

Jon did not reply, but shook his head, lowering his gaze, and that was even more than he wanted to admit.

Tyrion cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. “I’m sure,” he said, “that she doesn’t want to burden you with that.” He gestured awkwardly with his small hands at Jon’s walking cane. “I mean, you’re still healing, so…”

“Of course,” Jon said, forcing a smile. The truth was that since he had returned to Winterfell, he had barely seen Sansa. She would spend her busy mornings in the Great Hall, meeting with the northern lords with their numerous requests, and her nights in her solar, where she would sup alone or with Ser Brienne, who was always by her side as Commander of the Queensguard. Jon had thought about visiting her in her solar, but then he remembered she was not her little sister anymore. She was his queen, and if she did not summon him, it was impolite of him to show up unexpected. And if she did not summon him, then she did not have anything to say to him.

“I would like to chat with you a little more, but I have to go,” Jon said, Tyrion’s quick eyes flashing at him.

“Of course, Jon. I guess I’ll go inside. It may not be winter anymore, but your North is always too cold for a southern dwarf like me.”

Jon smiled at Tyrion and followed him with his eyes as he strode clumsily towards the doors, his short arms wrapped around his own body. He was wearing a heavy coat of wool, but he still visibly shuddered.

Jon then, with Sam’s help, walked towards the crypts. His dearest friend helped him descend the stairs that led underground, and then left as that was a place only a Stark could enter. If he had to be honest with himself, Jon thought that he did not belong there. He had never been a Stark, now more than ever, but he thought that if nobody saw him, then he could stay as long as he pleased. The crypts were barely lit, so Jon held an oil lantern in front of him. Everything around him was so silent that his heartbeat was the only sound that he could hear. He held his breath as he walked past all the immobile statues, ancient as Winterfell itself, some of which he did not even know who they belonged to. He picked some short candles up and walked to lord Eddard’s statue. _Father_ , he wanted to whisper, but he knew he could not. No matter how he would plead, no one would answer. He lit up one of the candles in his gloved hand and placed it at lord Eddard’s granite feet, next to his stone sword. He then started walking again, slowly dragging his right foot, shifting his weight on the left, so that his wounded leg would hurt less. Ghost padded along, close behind, watching over him with his blood red eyes. During those spring nights, whenever he woke up all sweaty because of a nightmare, Ghost would always rose from his sleeping rug and jump on his bed, careful not to hurt him, light as a feather. He would warm him with his thick and immaculate fur, and Jon would feel calmer and ready to go back to sleep again. And even now, Ghost was his most trusted companion, and having him by his side made him feel safer.

He stopped when he reached her mother’s statue. Lyanna Stark, the woman lord Eddard swore an oath to on her deathbed, and the proof he had honoured it was standing right here, alive and breathing. He lit up a second candle and placed it at the base of the statue. He dared to look up and observed her features, trying to picture what she she must have looked like when she was alive. He knew that her hair and eyes were dark, like his, but he did not know if he had something else of his mother in him. When he was younger, he would always dream of her, imagining who she had been. Now that he knew, he wished he had met her, to ask her all those questions he had always wondered in the back of his mind. He stood still, looking at her, the cold of the crypts embracing his body. What would his mother have thought of him if she had known him? Jon felt a sharp pain coming from his chest at the thought of the pain she had to go through to bring him into the world. She gave up her life in order to let him live, but he was not so sure he was deserving of it.

He peeped over his shoulder when he heard steps echoing from the opposite end of the crypts. The Queen in the North was wearing a long gown of dark grey wool and a coat of thick grey furs adorned her shoulders and chest. Her hair was half-up, like she would always wear it, two thick locks running from each temple and meeting at the back, in the middle. Her hair was red like it had never been, illuminated by the slender candle she was holding in her gloved hand and shining like a thousand burning flames in the deep dark of the cold crypts where cold winds would blow from one end of the endless corridor to the other. She might be a queen, Jon thought, but she still looked very much like the old Sansa.

Jon turned to face Sansa and smiled at her, then lowered his gaze in front of him. She walked over in front of Lyanna Stark’s statue and placed the burning candle next to Jon’s. She then stood a few steps away from him, gazing at the statue. They were both in front of it, the light of the lantern Jon was holding flickering before them, casting shapeless shadows on the stone walls.

“I’m sorry we haven’t properly talked about it.” Sansa’s gentle voice sounded delicate like the singing of a mockingbird. Jon glanced at her with a confused look, but her eyes were still fixed on the woman’s statue.

“Talked about what?” he asked her.

“Your mother.” Her eyes were now on Jon, who looked down and felt a rush of blood to the head. “And your father,” she continued, but he barely heard her.

Jon cleared his throat. “There’s no need to talk about it.” His voice was hoarse, and no matter how hard he tried, his fingers were trembling. Jon prayed that Sansa would not notice it.

“Jon,” she called his name, taking a few steps closer to him, erasing the distance that had been separating them. “We’re family. We _should_ talk about it.” She was now a few inches from him, her warm breath fuming in the cold of the crypts. Jon could not dare look her in the eye, for he did not even know what to say. “Remember what you told me when we took back Winterfell?” Sansa asked him, taking him by surprise. He hesitated before answering, pretending to dig in his memory to find the right answer, as if it had not immediately come to his mind.

“ _We need to trust each other_ ,” he recited his own words, the words he had spoken to her on the Winterfell battlements when his hands still smelled of Ramsay Bolton’s wicked blood.

“Exactly,” Sansa spoke again, putting her hand on his shoulder, which made Jon shiver even though he was covered in warm furs. “I have never forgotten those words. Have you?”

“No.” This time, he did not pretend to think about the answer. There was no need to.

“When Bran told us, the Great War had just ended. A few days later you left for King’s Landing, and when we saw each other again, you…” she hesitated, visibly shaken. Jon could only imagine how much it cost her to say those words. “…you were leaving for the Wall, _again_ ,” she paused, emphasising the last word. It was true. They had not had the chance to talk after the war, for he had to leave for the capital again. And when the war for the Iron Throne was over, he had to pay the price of it.

“You’re right”, Jon admitted. “You’ve been right about a lot of things.”

“What do you mean?” Now she was the confused one.

“I should’ve listened to you.” Jon sighed, gazing up at his mother’s statue. “I shouldn’t have trusted Daenerys.”

Jon expected Sansa to reply, but not even a single word came out from her lips. She lowered her gaze, and the flickering light of the lantern made her look mortified.

“You couldn’t know what she would do. No one could.”

Sansa’s reaction took Jon by surprise, but it did not make him feel any better. “I should have. I would have saved a city.”

“You couldn’t,” Sansa insisted firmly, almost angrily. She looked at him straight in the eye. “Stop blaming yourself, Jon.”

Jon scoffed, letting out a bitter half-laughter. “You think that’s easy, don’t you? Do you know what it’s like to live like _this_?” Jon was shouting, and did not even realise it. Sansa looked at him in disbelief, her mouth shaped like an O. “She slaughtered a city, Sansa, and I didn’t stop her!” 

“You think you’re the only one who made mistakes?” She was the one screaming now, a river of outraged words flowing freely from her lips, her eyes like two fiery embers, no trace of their usual calming blue. “I trusted the boy that killed our father because I thought I loved him!” Sansa’s voice was shaking, and Jon could visibly see how difficult it was for her to remain composed. “He had promised me that he would be merciful and then he cut father’s head off!” Jon tried to articulate a reply, but no words formed in his mouth dry as a desert. He licked his lips and looked at her mother’s statue again, wishing she were there to help him. “We’ve all suffered, _all of us_ ,” Sansa spoke again, not taking her eyes off Jon’s face. “But we’ve reacted. We’re still reacting. As I’ve already said, it’s not your fault she burned King’s Landing to the ground! So, stop brooding and whining and _react_ , Seven hells!” It was the first time Jon had ever heard Sansa curse, and he certainly had forgotten how easily she would get on his nerves. She was breathing so fast that her chest moved rhythmically under her coat, its furs made golden by the lantern. Her eyes stung him like a thousand unforgiving knives, and it was more that he could bear at the moment. 

Without saying a word, he gave her one last sour look before walking past her, dragging his right foot as fast as he could, biting his lip until it bled dark blood every time his wound hurt as if it were fresh again. A storm of feelings was raging inside Jon’s heart: anger, sorrow, resentment, _fear_. Fear that he would never get a chance to be himself again, fear that Sansa would never forgive him for yelling like that, fear that if her mother had been alive, she would have despised him for who he was, for what he had done. Jon tried considering Sansa’s words, bitter yet honest, but he could not fathom how he could forgive himself for the massacre he had played a role in. Jon walked out of the crypts, climbing the stairs that led to Winterfell’s courtyard with difficulty, and only the sight of Ghost by his side seemed to give him the strength he needed not to collapse on the floor with his eyes shut, hoping that the cold ground would swallow him whole. His thigh hurt like the first day again, but he did not stop. It was a long walk for him to his bedchambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated! if you liked this, leave a comment and let me know what you think of it. It'll help me write the rest!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow [my Tumblr](https://sansa-in-the-north.tumblr.com) to stay tuned!


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